The Postmaster
by Vaysh11
Summary: A new postmaster comes to the remotest of the Shetland islands. ****A sequel in drabbles of Frayach's "Bound Skerry".


**Author's Notes:** This is a sequel to Bound Skerry by Frayach who kindly allowed me to d(r)abble in her 'verse. It will only make sense if you know the story.

* * *

**The Postmaster**

* * *

_ ~ The Flag ~_

On Tuesday, an owl passes the cottage in a flurry of brown feathers amidst the falling snow. There are no owls on Skerries. Draco talks to the seagulls if he wants news from the sea (from Harry).

The rumours reach him the next day. Housay has a new postmaster. For three days now, the man has hoisted the Union Jack on the pole. A wizard, Draco thinks, because of the owl.

He bundles up in woollen scarves and walks to the lighthouse. Beyond the water and the craggy rocks the flag beckons – blue, red, frozen stiff in the icy wind.

-x-

_~ He is here ~_

The boat cuts through the ice. In its wake, blue shards glimmer on the water. Draco disembarks and walks up the pier, towards the store the new postmaster made his home.

The old sign is unreadable, covered by snow. The precise square of the flag crackles in the wind. A rack of postcards stands beside the open door. Draco waits on the threshold, in the glassy light. Smells come from the inside of the store, familiar ones – fresh bread, newspaper, beer. And these: burned rubber, turpentine. The smell of the storm in Harry's hair.

Draco turns around with a smile.

-x-

_~ Free ~_

Draco lingers at the pier, he isn't quite sure what for, when Harry steps out of the store. A small man, slender, a spring to his step. Draco knows there's grey in his hair.

Harry holds a hammer, and with a few swift bangs he fastens an old-fashioned Christmas wreath to the door.

He has a look about him, Draco thinks, a look that says he'll white-wash the house come Spring, freshen up the paint. Bright red for the door, like the letter-box on its side. He has come to stay.

Which means Draco is, finally, free of Bound Skerry.

-x-

_~ Good-bye ~_ 1

Draco came to Bound Skerry with nothing but his name and pride. He leaves with the clothes on his skin, the colourful scarves knitted from Orkney wool. Memories.

Crossing the bridge that connects Housay and Bruray, he says good-bye to the voe. He will miss the wind, his constant companion. But the wind will hear his good-bye anywhere.

He catches the afternoon flight to Tingwall Airport, a stretch of tarmac and hard brown earth. From here Draco can go anywhere – Hogsmeade, London, Ulaanbaatar. But the bounds of Skerries still have a hold on him. He takes the ferry to Tórshavn.

-x-

_~ Waiting ~ _2

In the wintery streets of Tinganes, chestnuts are sold hot from the fire. Draco tests his rusty magic by casting wandless Cooling Charms. He burns his fingertips but it's so worth it.

When the afternoon shadows fall on the quaint wine-red houses, he realises he's waiting.

Waiting for the crack of Apparition, for black robes to whip up the snow. A hex to bring him to his knees. Being slammed against the wall and fucked hard by cold, clumsy fingers.

He is waiting for the storm to hit. He is waiting for Harry to return him to where he belongs.

-x-

_~ The Navel of the World ~_

There is a reason why Tórshavn is called the navel of the world.

For two nights Draco waits for Harry. On the third he leaves the hotel and prowls the Harbour. Freedom tastes like salt and gin. Draco remembers the man's red jacket, its old-fashioned green cuffs. He lets himself be pushed onto a bare mattress. For the first time he lets himself be bound by someone who is not Harry.

A light flashes in the distance – red, white, red. The lighthouse of Bound Skerry is hundreds of miles away.

Mice scatter underneath the bed when Draco cuts himself loose.

-x-

_~ What's Left ~_

The wrought-iron gate that barred the entrance to the Manor grounds is gone. Its posts are overgrown with yew. A peahen, her plumage a pearly grey, eyes Draco curiously.

At the end of the driveway he finds a pile of bricks and glass. This is what the Manor must have looked like for Muggle eyes. In this moment Draco fervently hopes he has gone Muggle, after all.

A dog barks languidly in the distance; the peahen flies off without a sound. Back at the lane, Draco holds out his bare left hand. Seconds later, the Knightbus screeches to a halt.

-x-

_~ Ghost ~_

If Draco had a choice he would not go to Diagon Alley. But he needs money, he needs to find out about his parents. He needs a wand. He gets off the Knight Bus, expecting pointed fingers and whispered slurs.

None come. Nobody recognises his tell-tale hair. There are two witches in the street who are blonder than him. He's a just wizard amongst wizarding kind.

She stands in front of Madame Primpernelle's: dark hair in a knot, wearing an apron with a pattern of Christmas trees.

"Draco," Pansy whispers. She stares at him as if he was a ghost.

-x-

_~ Vault ~_

A goblin leads Draco down to the vault, no questions asked. It's almost too easy. Harry's doing, Draco suspects, and when he enters, his suspicions are confirmed. Portraits, chairs, oakwood chests, even his collection of Chocolate Frog cards – all that once filled the rooms of the Manor is stored here. Harry must have moved everything before it was torn down.

Draco spends hours amidst what remains of his former life. He takes enough Galleons to last him a month. The rest he leaves for Pansy to furnish the Malfoy townhouse he gave her, complete with a Christmas tree in front.

-x-

_~ Blue Room ~_

The world is blue where Lucius Malfoy resides. Elegantly furnished, well heated but icy blue. The cold has crept into his grey eyes. There's no spark of recognition. Lucius Malfoy knows his Healer's name but he does not recognise his son.

Perhaps all heat left his father when Mother died. Draco remembers a tall, smiling man. He remembers hands on his shoulders, their touch warm and comforting. Safe.

He thinks of Bound Skerry, of the wind that is not warm, of Harry who is not safe. In all those years Draco has never been as alone as in this room.

-x-

_~ Ménage à trois ~_

Draco doesn't know the Leaky's new owner but she gives him a good room. It's when he comes down for supper that the past catches up with him.

Ginny Potter recognises him instantly. One look, and Draco knows she knows.

The even bigger surprise is Blaise who startles at Draco's sight, catches himself and gives him a languid Slytherin salute. Another man sits at their table – a strange ménage à trois. When the Weaselette approaches Draco, her companions follow like wolves.

"Do you know where Harry is?" she asks. The pain in her voice is so familiar. The longing, too.

-x-

_~ Eight Years ~_ 3

Draco won't tell Ginny where Harry is; if it's a secret then it's for Harry to tell.

She invites him to their cottage. Her companions stare at her like a wolf pack whose leader has gone insane.

The Potters have a summer home. Raspberry bushes grow in the back. Ginny makes Draco hot chocolate, inquires about his parents, offers her sympathies.

"He left me eight years ago," she says abruptly. "One day he just moved out."

Eight years, eight Beltanes. Eight times Harry left Draco, to go back – to where?

Ginny smiles at him through tears. "Let me show you."

-x-

_~ Harry's Flat ~_

They step out of the fireplace into a sparsely furnished room – table, chair, shelf of books.

"This is where Harry lived, those last few years." Ginny considers Draco. "When he was not with you."

It's close but it's not the whole of the truth. For the Skerries are everywhere in this place. On the window-sill, where this time of year usually Poinsettias bloom, rock-cress grows, the green-leaved kind and amongst them the smaller, dark-leaved one. Between the flowerpots a broken seashell rests on a bed of sparkling sand.

"Stay here for the night," Ginny says. "Harry would want you to."

oOo

Trails of sand crisscross the living room floor. They lead Draco through another door and to Harry's bed. A frayed quilt covers it, stitched together from scraps of brown, grey and green. Draco undresses and slips beneath the sheets, breathing in Harry's familiar scent. The quilt is rough against his naked skin.

As his eyes adjust to the darkness in the room, the ceiling reveals cracks of glimmering gold. They weave and thread from window to walls, reminding Draco of nothing as much as the flow and ebb of the sea. He touches himself, slowly. But he does not come.

-x-

_~ Still Wandless ~_

One last trip to Diagon Alley, and Draco takes Pansy for company. Only yesterday she left the backroom of Madame Primpernelle's for good, and already she looks younger, more fierce, more like the girl he used to know.

At Ollivander's Draco tries what feels like a thousand wands. He's drawn to many but none chooses him. All those years on Bound Skerry he never missed a wand. But the tingling underneath his skin is back. Such sharp longing, for the hopefulness of hawthorn, the spritely endurance of unicorn hair. And yet no wand is like another. Draco leaves wandless, still.

-x-

_~ The Gaoler ~_

Another island in the middle of the sea. Another prison. Another Slytherin who returned to a place he never chose to stay, to a life he never imagined.

After five years in Azkaban and two homeless winters on the street, Gregory Goyle became a prison guard. Ex-cons make the best gaolers, they say.

The uniform suits his bulk. He offers Draco green-tinted Butterbeer.

"Escaped, didn't you?" he asks.

Draco shrugs.

"Potter?" Gregory ventures with his toothy grin.

Draco's gaze involuntarily wanders North, he's scanning the waves, the mist-covered horizon.

Gregory's hand on his shoulder is warm. "Go back to him."

-x-

_~ You will always be found and returned ~_ 4

The sea underneath the boat from Azkaban is churning. The silver-crested waves toss planks around, plastic bottles, a scrap of cloth. Striped red and white, it shimmers like a lovelorn candy cane, awash in the dark blue sea.

Draco Accios it wandlessly; he snatches the waterlogged canvas from the air. The new postmaster has not had the flag up for a week, and already it's ripped to shreds by the ruthless wind.

This is the position: 55°98.966'N, 3°22.754'W. This is the date: 12/16/2018. One day these numbers will grace the cloth, in golden thread. Nothing is ever lost to Skerries.

-x-

_~ Grey Afternoon ~_

From the airplane the flecks of snow look like clouds hovering above the cliffs. Draco returns with the afternoon flight, when the light is soft and grey. He slips into the post office where Harry is chatting happily over a cauldron of mulled wine. Ann, the firewoman, notices him at once, with the infallible instinct of Skerrie folk to sense their own. And while Draco will always be a stranger (the lighthouse ghost, they call him), they know him.

"You're back," Ann says.

Harry's head snaps us, he stutters, blanches, almost drops his wine. He may well be seeing ghosts.

-x-

_~ Hamefarin ~_ 5

The postmaster's final chore of the day is feeding live mice to the owls. Draco drinks mulled wine and waits.

"You can go wherever you want," Harry finally says. "I'm not keeping you."

"I know." Draco counts, one, two –

He's slammed into the wall, arms twisted painfully above his head, broken cup at his feet, mice scattering everywhere. TheIncarcerous around his wrists adds fresh bruises to the yellowing ones from Tórshavn. Harry cups his balls and squeezes; he slides his hands roughly up Draco's chest, his shoulders, his –

It's been seven months. Harry's thumbs close around Draco's throat.

Freedom.

-x-

_~ Quilt ~_

They lie on Harry's bed in the postmaster's flat at the back of the store. Night has fallen. A quilt covers Draco; he's always cold when he comes around after Harry took his breath away. The quilt's pattern is local, familiar: brown stripes with tiny, stone-coloured diamonds on a green very unlike Slytherin's.

The room smells of crumbled mince pies, spunk, and Harry – Harry who's gently stroking Draco's throat; Harry who's naked but for his vest; Harry who looks at Draco with the same apologetic need like twenty years ago.

Time, Draco thinks, to leave one quilt to see another.

-x-

_~ Stitched Together ~_ 6

The Out Skerries Historical Society is on Mainland. Draco makes Harry Side-along him directly from the Housay pier. People know their new postmaster is a wizard. Nobody cares. On Skerries, magic is everywhere.

Draco hands the piece of cloth from Azkaban to the lady in charge, while Harry moves from the Yule log to the ever-expanding quilt on display. It's a frozen blood-smeared ocean; it's the pink-streaked sky at simmer dim. Draco can tell the very moment when Harry realises it's stitched together from weathered scraps of his flag.

Determination softens Harry's features; he will raise this flag every day.

-x-

_~ About Waiting ~_

Harry understands about the quilt but he doesn't get Draco.

"What is it you do all day?" he asks.

Draco wants to tell him – about the clouds above Bound Skerry. About the tide surging and ebbing away. About the colour of the rock-cress' leaves changing each new Spring. About waiting. But Harry wouldn't understand.

The next morning Draco arrives at the pier when Harry hisses the flag. They stand on both sides of the pole, their shadows black against the rising sun. Draco does not bring champagne but malt coffee and home-made croissants.

"This is what I do," he says.

-x-

_~ Shipwreck ~_ 7

Harry's anger is a shipwreck run aground off Mioness. It's loaded with cannons and golden coils of rope. There is no telling what will set it off: the ship's bronze bell rings a warning, and Draco knows the storm is close.

Harry's anger by now is a dear old friend. Draco prepares the tea, treacle tart, himself. The bed is ready for Harry to stay the night.

Harry's anger tears into Draco, shreds him apart. The tighter Harry binds him, the more desperate his need. You, Harry says and comes hard between Draco's thighs. You, and Draco spills and spills.

-x-

_~ Between Weathers ~_

One morning Draco's wand lies on the table. The wood could do with a polish but otherwise it's whole. Unbroken. A plate of gingerbread cookies, sprinkled with sugar, stands beside it. A trail of sand and melted snow crosses the floor.

Harry waits in the kitchen door, wind-swept, wide-eyed, unable to say a word. His boots are dripping ice-water everywhere.

"Good morning," Draco says. And, "Thank you." After all those years.

Skerrie folk have a word for days like these: _between weathers_. They are between weathers, Draco thinks. Between this wand and the golden thread Harry holds in his hand.

-x-

_~ The Teeth of the Gale ~_ 8

Father Christmas never visits Skerries. Instead comes Guizer Jarl, the Viking King. End of January, galleys burn all over the islands. Draco, who would have burned to death if not for Harry, cannot help feel kinship with the dragon ships.

Harry's started wearing the postmaster's cap, and it suits him. Draco wears the ropes Harry slung around his wrists. Sometimes, when he pulls at them so hard they threaten to give, he can see what lies beyond – beyond the fire, beyond the past. Like a ship, he leans into the teeth of the gale, and is at home in it.

-x-

_~ Beltane ~_ 9

It is Beltane again.

Draco lights the fire on the abandoned rail tracks. The metal makes a solid fire pit; the oil-smeared beams will burn all day. A twig of hawthorn crackles in the flames, unicorn hair sparks silver. It is good to burn all things winter left behind.

He remembers joy so pure, like a snow ride at Hogwarts, like a white rose in the Manor's garden. Then Harry strides over the hill, casual, care-free, cloak billowing in the wind. Draco raises his hand – to sea, rock, sand, the tilting, endless sky.

„God's teeth," he says, and Harry smiles.

~ fin ~

* * *

NOTES:

1 | A voe is Shetland dialect for an inlet of water. ↑

2 | Tinganes is the old part of the city of Tórshavn. ↑

3 | This drabble and the next are very much inspired by Marguerite_26's Come Back to Me, a remix of Bound Skerry. ↑

4 | The title of this drabble is a direct quote from "Bound Skerry". ↑

5 | _Hamefarin_ means Homecoming in Norn, the now extinct old language of Shetland and the Orkneys. ↑

6 | _Simmer dim_ means summer twilight in Shetland dialect. ↑

7 | Mioness is a peninsula on the southernmost tip of Housay. ↑

8 | Up Helly Ya is Shetland's winter fire festival with torchlight processions culminating in a burning of galleys.  
To sail_ into the teeth of the gale_ means to sail windward. ↑

9 | Quote from "Bound Skerry":

God's teeth, the villagers say in response to almost everything. Even after a decade and a half of sharing these forsaken isles with them, I still don't know whether the phrase is a greeting, an exhortation, or merely an acknowledgement of shared circumstances. It doesn't really matter. It always seems to convey the necessary meaning, regardless. ↑


End file.
